Fic, The Lady in the Fireplace, 14/32: Coming Around, Part I

[loveslashangst]

Story: The Lady in the Fireplace
Author: Melinda Kitty melindakitty
Characters: Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Reinette, King of France and (eventually) Ninth Doctor
Rated: oh, so Adult for slash, bisexuality, mature content, language, abuse of REALLY good champagne, and lots and lots of sex (multiple pairings/groupings)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did, Rose would be more BadWolf and less Angst, Ten would post a sign on the door sayin' "If the TARDIS is a rockin', don't come a knockin'", and half of their adventures through time and space would consist of finding new and unusual places to have a juicy shag.
Spoilers: AU, DURING "The Girl in the Fireplace". If you haven't seen the first three series of Doctor Who, you WILL be spoilered. I like to mess with canon. And you have my word that -- despite how this starts -- I'm a passionate Rose/Ten shipper.
Summary: OTP Rose/Ten with a lot of interesting liaisons along the way. So what exactly DID Ten do in Versailles? This French farce will have love, drama, sex, and eventually as close to a happy ending as I can manage. Be forewarned, though, I may take you places that would make RTD's head explode.

As a reminder, Melinda is on vacation this week and next, and Faithful will be on hiatus as a result. Updates of Lady in the Fireplace and Dancing Lessons will continue as planned, though. --ophymirage

On with the show:

In which Rose learns to rely on the kindness of strangers.



“Well, shit.”

Rose is not crying. She’s not. She’s not. She’s not. Just because that whole scene went about as badly as it could possibly have gone and the pain in the pit of her belly... Well, that has nothing to do -- well, not much anyway -- with that lovely rough, slow shag in the TARDIS’s control room. (Who would’ve thought her Doctor had it in him?)

And she’s not going to smile like some goofy teenager in love at the thought of the Doctor because now Himself hates her. It wasn’t even her fault. (Well, it sort of was. Maybe opening the Heart of the TARDIS wasn’t so brilliant a plan after all.) But if Himself hadn’t been tomcatting around with The Bint, none of this would’ve happened in the first place. Now she’s becoming some kind of freak and the only person in the universe who might understand would rather run away than look at her.

Coward... Houdini... Escape artist...

(Probably didn’t help anything when she slapped him a good one, even if he was asking for it.)

And she’s not going to waste any tears on Himself. She’s not. She’s not. She’s not. God knows he won’t waste any on her. He never does. She’s seen it. He just pulls up stakes and moves on to the next one.

Unfeeling, inhuman bastard. What the hell was she thinking, waving her bits and pieces in the face of an alien?

Stupid. She’s being stupid. She knew all along she was going to lose him. It’s been there right from the start, when Reinette showed her the truth. She just didn’t think it was going to be over this quick.

And dammit, those are not tears. She’s not crying. She’s not. She’s not. She’s not.

There’s a new chair in the control room. She stares at it, wiping at the bits of wet (which are NOT tears) from her eyes. It’s an oversized, brown armchair with big, squishy cushions. She looks around, puzzled. There’s never an armchair in the control room, only that mangy old jumpseat, and who uses that? She and the Doctor always stand, braced on the central console during flights or being flung about like dolls in some evil child’s toy house when the TARDIS lands someplace new. (And add to the mix that she’s often holding bits of sparking things that might well singe her eyebrows off if she’s not careful, while the Doctor tries to keep the whole bloody ship from going up in smoke and a shower of sparks.)

Someone caresses her mind.

At first she thinks it’s Himself and tries to throw him out again. (Right satisfying, that was. Brings back her smile just to think of it.) The someone draws back a little, polite, but doesn’t leave all the way. And the more she touches it with her own mind, let less like a “him” it feels.

She’s not human, whatever she is. Not whatever Himself is either. She’s something else.

All the hairs on the back of Rose’s neck raise when she remembers the other Doctor (who could be brooding, but was so much less of a prat than Himself) telling her that the TARDIS would get inside her mind. That it would know what she was thinking.

“Are you there?” she says. If she’s wrong she’ll be one step closer to chatting up doorknobs and gibbering in corners. If she’s right, though...

The presence glides through her mind. Draws pointed attention to the bits of Time Vortex that still ebb and flow around her in untidy waves.

“Oh,” she says. “Right. Sorry. This must belong to you.”

She opens her mind and her heart and the presence very gently siphons off the power. Now it feels like her body might be able to contain her soul again. She’s willing to bet the well cool golden eyes thing’s gone away too. She does permit herself a grin at the thought of the look on Himself’s face when he realized she’d nicked his key. (Hope he broke his toe when he kicked the door.)

“Are you...?” She’s not even sure what the right way to phrase the question is. (Out of practice talking to inanimate objects that aren’t so inanimate after all.) “TARDIS?” she finishes lamely.

The chair glides slowly and surely toward her. That’s a “have a seat” if ever she saw one, that is.

“Thank you.” Her mum didn’t bring her up to be rude, even if it is to furniture. She sits nervously, feeling sick and unsure, but also oddly better. At least she’s not alone now. The cushions really are soft and squishy, just like they should be. She curls up, smiling in spite of herself. “So. Em... Did you need something? I mean... is there something I can do for you?”

The presence smiles in her mind. How it manages to “smile” without a face or voice or anything human she’s not sure. She just has the impression of kind amusement, like she’s said something unintentionally funny.

“It’s about Himself, innit?” She tries to keep her tone smooth. (It’s still weird talking to a ship that’s shaped like a blue Police box on the outside and doesn’t really seem to end on the inside.)

The chair slides closer to the console with her in it. She manages not to yelp, but only just. She sinks her fingers into the arms of the chair, though. Never know when things will go flying about with her in them.

A panel on the console tips up. A sliver of light hits her full in the face. Suddenly, her whole body relaxes. All the aches and pains go away. The bruises at the backs of her thighs. The aches inside. Even the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. All gone. All good. And in their place, peace.

Time heals all wounds.

And then it’s gone. She blinks until her eyes adjust to the dim of normal lighting. Smiles. “Brilliant, that was! Thank you.”

A faint caress, like a mother tucking a stray lock of hair from the face of a beloved child. Warmed by the image, Rose cuddles down in her chair a little more. “So. What do we do now while we figure out what to do with Himself?”

A little book appears on the console. She picks it up. It’s a script, like for a play. “Waiting for Godot?” she reads. “Not very heartening. Isn’t that the one about the bloke who never shows up?”

There’s another book on the console. The bindings look old, but the thing’s in mint condition. (Himself probably nipped back to Victorian London and nicked himself a fresh copy.) “Great Expectations,” Rose reads. “Oh no. That’s even worse. Some crazy old biddy makes a girl hate all men because some sod stood her up at the altar?”

A third book appears when she blinks. Rose carefully sets the others back and picks the new one up. It’s a slender, illustrated volume in full colour.

“One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish?” She resists the urge to throw it across the room. “Oi! Just ‘cause I never passed A-levels don’t mean I ain’t got education!”

She realizes what she just said. And how she said it. (Eliza sodding Doolittle.) She nestles back into her chair, sulking. Opens the book. “Fine then, TARDIS-clever-trousers. Good a way as any to kill time. But if we’re doing Doctor Seuss, you better have ‘em all. I read quicker than you think.”

A large stack of slender volumes appears on the console. Rose smiles in spite of herself. “Thank you.”



Link to All Previous Chapters

Crossposted to: time_and_chips